Dance with the Devil
by Shini02
Summary: Oneshot. PWP. It's been awhile since he's had a live one.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Jeepers Creepers, all I own is this fic and my unfortunate nameless OC that is the Creeper's co-star.

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**Dance with the Devil**

His patience has paid off, she is finally beginning to stir from her place across the room. Her fingers twitch first, the slight motion a severe disturbance to the stillness all around her. She moves her wrist, the bones pop and crack into comfortable positions. Her head lifts slowly, eyes opening into thin, groggy slits. She watches her fingers flex, grasping at the stale air of the basement of the church. A groan slips through her lips, and when she swallows to wet her dry throat, her eyes open up wide and fearful. She can taste blood. Her tongue does not rise and fall as her esophagus contracts and pushes down vile saliva. She begins to recall what happened a mere half hour ago. The highway, the _thing_ that separated her from her motorcycle with one graceful dive from somewhere above her. She remembers the bike skidding off the road as she was lifted into the air by strong, cold hands. The rest is a little disjointed, but she can remember pain. Searing pain that sent her into a state of unconsciousness.

He watches her look from one hand to the other, chest beginning to heave frightfully, mouth lolling open since she has yet to adjust to the feel of not having a tongue. His lips curve upward slowly and his smile shows off his teeth when she looks to her lower stomach, sees his stitch work and screams. The smile broadens when she starts to thrash from her place on the wall, where's another piece sewn into his human tapestry, wriggling like a skewered butterfly.

He turns on the old radio sitting on the wooden stool he hasn't quite finished carving. When he stands and whistles along with the tune sifting through the basement, _I know you will feed the monster and the lady_, she silences herself completely as she stares ahead, watching him come forth from the shadows. As he advances, she arches her back as much as the tight stitches on her stomach will allow in a futile attempt to rid herself of him. He cocks his head to the side and cups one cheek, bruised and cut from her fall on the highway. She closes her eyes as though he were a figment of her imagination to be banished by happier thoughts.

One hand to each cheek now, he stops whistling and cocks his head to the other side, looking the young one over. She opens her eyes and grimaces when he grins toothily at her.

"Wha'...?" She manages, words awkward obstacles suddenly.

He says nothing, instead leaning in to run his tongue, freshly regenerated and his own adaptation of what once belonged to her, across her lips. A quiet chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat after she tries to pull out of his grasp, away from his monstrous mouth.

"'et a'ay f'om 'e," she pleads quietly, weakly.

Again, he says nothing. He runs one hand down across her neck, to her breasts and fingers a pierced nipple. He pushes the ring up, then down, then grasps the thin metal between his index finger and thumb. He tugs hard, tearing sterling silver through taut, pink flesh, pleased to hear the woman's cry of pain. His hand wanders lower, and soon the other follows until he is holding her backside within a firm grasp. He slides his hands down a little lower, cups her bruised thighs and hoists her up, forcing her aching legs to wrap around his waist.

The look of disbelief in her eyes is priceless. Is it really so hard for her understand what is happening? It should be obvious with the way he is holding her, the way he is rubbing his sheathed sex against the insides of her thighs until his member pushes through the slit of thick, dead skin. And he does not care that she will probably die before he is finished with her.

She tries to push away from him, dig her heels into the small of his back. He growls at her and pushes himself inside with enough force to make whatever is left inside jostle about in a sickening fashion. The gag reflex is stronger than the urge to scream at her attacker, but still she tries to wiggle away from him. He has to wonder if she has realized she is held fast to the wall behind her, to the corpses beside her.

He closes his eyes, ignoring her weakening struggles, reveling in the feel of a living body wrapped tight around his shaft, squeezing and throbbing and hot. He leans in closer to her, pressing his chest to hers, his dead, flaking flesh more than likely to infect her ruined nipple.

"'op," she pleads, eyes heavy-lidded and stomach churning violently. "'ease, 'op..."

He growls again, louder and once again forces himself inside roughly. She can only whimper, the grip around his waist loosening a little. Eyes still closed, he cranes his neck to press his lips to her neck, to suck at her tender flesh, thrusting into her faster. He grazes his teeth across her skin, then soothes the swells with his tongue. He stops when his tongue touches her jugular. There is no pulse.

He hisses, pulling back from her neck to toss his head back and spread his wings and shout as he spills himself inside of her warm corpse. When he is finished, he pulls himself out and lets her fall slack against the wall, back into place amongst the other bodies. He reaches out and swipes a hand across her swollen center, cleaning her of any mess he made.

He steps back to eye her body. He will have to take special care of her nipple. It was reckless and impulsive of him to wound the body in such a way, especially knowing he may have caused irreparable flaw. With his gaze fixated on her, he walks backwards to his work space to prepare an assortment of ointments to correctly preserve her. Turning toward his table of elixirs, he begins to whistle along with the song that now bounces off the walls of his House of Pain, _I'm so happy dancing while the Grim Reaper cuts, cuts, cuts – but he can't get me_...

-End


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